feature. Allrighty then.
Okay, genius. We need an opening line.
It was a dark and stormy night.
Oh, truly, that's brilliant. You're such a fuckhead. Something original would be nice. So...rewind. Gimme a decent opening line.
I can't think of anything.
Well, why not just jump start it? You know, trot out some of the same old trusty shit and see if it flies.
A Gypsy walks into Danny's Coffee shop.
Good, that's a start! Sounds kind of like the intro to a bad joke, though...
Hey, so two femme lesbians go on a dinner date. Why did their legs get sore?
From standing up all night, waiting for the other one to pull their chair out for them.
Why did they have to walk home?
I guess you're gonna tell me?
No one brought the car around.
Are you done?
No. Why did they almost drown?
No one to fix the leaky faucet?
Oh. You heard that one. Well, what did they finally die of?
No, they died of old age, waiting for the other one to make the first move.
Can we write this poem? Can you stay focused long enough to do that?
I'm hungry. Doesn't a sandwich sound good? Then we could turn on tv and--
All right. A Gypsy walks into Danny's Coffee Shop.
Now throw in some random observation.
She wears five rings, one for each of her possible moods.
Envy, sloth, lust, resentment and sniping?
That sounds like 7 Deadly Sins For Dummies, or something. You can do better.
Not for what you pay me.
Think! Come on. What are the Gypsy's five moods?
One ring is gold, for when she feels satisfied. The second is silver, like moonlight, for when she feels dreamy. Another is turquoise, like water, for when she feels deep and mysterious. One is brass, for when she feels bold and mouthy.
You're on a roll! What's the fifth ring?
Ask Dante, maybe he knows.
Don't be an ass. Get back to the poem. You were actually getting somewhere with it.
You make me crazy when you're bossy.
All right. The fifth ring is made of bone, with a ruby stone, for when she feels passionate and broody, as if she might burn herself up from within.
You had me until that last bit. It feels tired. Punch it up.
For when she feels passionate and broody, a bryndle spirit wrapped in Old Country colors, a moment's flame between low ash and high smoke.
Yeah baby. Now throw in a dash of religious junk...
Even God stops counting the inventory and looks up, almost in spite of Herself, when the Gypsy walks in.
I think you can take it from here.
Huh? What are you gonna do?
Oh, I'm gonna go read Verse Escape, or Another Damn Poetry Blog. They can really write!
Thank you, thank you...
dubious cat is dubious about this post.